Kelley Armstrong - Blood Lite

Jim went back up the hill. The fire licked at the grass and caught some more wind and grew wilder, and then the bear got caught up in it as well, the conflagration chew­ing his fur and cackling over his flesh like a crazed hag. The fire licked its way down the hill, and then the wind changed and Jim saw the fire climbing up toward him.

He got in the car and started it and found a place where he could back it around. It took some work, and by the time he managed it onto the narrow trail, he could see the fire in the mirror, waving its red head in his direction.

Jim drove down the hill, trying to remember the route. Behind him, the fire rose up into the trees as if it were a giant red bird spreading its wings.

"Dumb bear," he said aloud. "Ain't gonna be no weenie pull now, is there?" And he drove on until the fire was just a small bright spot in the rearview mirror, and then it was gone and there was just the tall, dark forest that the fire had yet to find.

The basket sat at the foot of the Infernos red-hot, iron-wrought gates, below the steaming plate that read ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE! The Ominous warning was wasted on the ebony-skinned baby, however, and it continued babbling. A burp followed; it giggled and cooed and the whole of the Underworld paused for a moment, pitchforks held frozen and tortures forgotten in media res.

"What the Hell was that?" a few demons were heard to whisper. But nobody wanted to be the chump to go and find out. Nobody volunteered in Hell. That, and sing-alongs, were frowned upon.

The ever-vigilant Cerberus, Guardian of the Gates of Hell and Angry Mutt of Damnation, padded up to the basket and looked around, confused and perhaps even sur­prised. He never saw who'd deposited the basket or why. Two of Cerberus's flanking heads peered around, while the middle one sniffed the basket carefully.

Yup ... baby, most definitely, the heads agreed.

Cerberus's middle head considered swallowing the child whole.

"Do it, do it!" the left head whispered gruffly, obviously not interested in taking the risk itself. "You know you want to. All soft and juicy ... just like we like 'em."

"I wouldn't do that," the right head counseled in a sing­song tone, admonishing the left head. "Who leaves a child at the Gates of Hell? Or better yet, why? No, we should hand it off to someone who doesn't think with their stom­ach. Prudence is the better course here."

The middle head sighed and decided it best to del­egate this chore to someone else; the three heads craned upward and Cerberus unleashed a ghastly howl. The gates opened slowly.

Roiling clouds of steam emanated from the cracks in the brass sidewalks of Dis; the screams of the damned and a thick blood clot of humidity saturated the air. Basket in hand, the demon Mastema, slayer of Egypt's firstborns, walked along, his cloven hooves sending sparks from the metal ground and scattering tinny echoes across the already noisy avenues. His once-perfect flesh remained scored and cracked from his plummet down, while the remnants of blackened feathers and scorched bones dangled from the shattered tree of his wings.

Mastema walked into the Great Assembly Hall, past several of Hell's senators and into the amphitheatre-style council chambers where Gressil, Devil of Slothfulness and Vile Slacker of the Pits, had convened a session. Only Gressil wasn't present; he was slacking off somewhere, much to nobody's surprise. Gressil's calls for a council were a national holiday in Hell, and everyone looked for­ward to propping their hooves up for the day.

That left the chambers relatively empty of all but a dozen damned. Mastema dropped the basket on the central dais of iron, immediately attracting the attention of those present.

"Anyone order this kid?" Mastema asked the assem­bled throng.

"Kid?" a voice asked.

Mastema looked up to see the human-looking Gaap hanging upside down from the ceiling's cathedral rafters. Bat wings unfurled from his human form, and he dropped to the floor with frightening grace.

"What d'ya know," Gaap said. "It is a kid. What hap­pened, Mastema? Miss one of the Pharaoh's firstborn?"

"One, he's not Egyptian," Mastema said. "Try to stay current. And two, I was following orders."

By now, the remaining devils and demons moved to the dais, craning their long necks and clucking to gain a better view of the child. The baby appeared delighted by the attention.

"Right," Gaap said, ribbing a fellow demon with his elbow. "Following orders. I think there's a few Nazis in the Seventh and Eighth Circles still singing that tune."

"The Egyptians invented beer," Mastema said. "I got nothing against them."

"Good point," Gaap replied.

"So," Mastema said. "Anyone order the kid?"

"Ooh, I did, I did." The demon deer Furfur spoke this time, He of the Unholy Venison, jumping up and down with cloven delight.

"Yeah?" Mastema asked, looking into the basket. "If you ordered him, what's he look like?"

"Small 'n black 'n soft," Furfur said, licking his chops.

"Sounds about right," Harpy said, looking inside the basket. She lifted the baby's diaper and stole a peek inside. "Ohhh. Sorry, Furfur. Did Mastema say 'he'? You almost had it right except for that pesky genitals thing. It's a she.

"Darn."

"Well, how am I supposed to tell?" Mastema grumbled. "I'm about as anatomically correct as a Barbie doll."

"And they sent you down to kill the firstborn sons?" Gaap said with a barking laugh.

"Shut up," Mastema replied. "I got most of them, didn't I?"

"What have we here?" a new voice asked. Everyone turned as Vassago, Demon of Prophesy and the Kool Kat of Hell, walked up to the group. His large red wings melted into his back and vanished out of sight; other­wise, he looked human with his charming smile and combed-back brown hair. He was sporting a gray blazer and trousers.

"You order this kid?" Mastema asked.

A grin crept across Vassago's face and he pushed past the others to peer inside the basket. "Well... isn't she a cutie," he said, genuinely delighted. "Who she belong to?"

Mastema shrugged.

"Maybe we should split her," Gaap said, running his scalpel-like claws across the sides of the basket.

"That's your answer for everything," Vassago said, tickling the baby's dimpled chin. She cooed and grabbed his finger.

"Seriously, Gaap," Harpy said. " 'Let's split Hitler,' you said. All I got was his pinky; at least you got a leg."

"I got his mustache," the wolf-headed Mammon said, stroking the stache on his upper lip.

"Looking good, Mammon," Harpy replied.

"Well, I think I should eat her," Mammon said. "As the Demon of Avarice, it would be bad for my image if I didn't."

"Nobody's eating her," Vassago said.

A cacophony of voices broke out in dissent and a few demons began pushing each other away. Vassago decided to end the argument.

"Fine . . . we'll settle this according to the Old Ways, the Dead Ways," Vassago said. A hush fell over the cham­bers.

"Fight to the death," someone whispered. "No! Choose a champion to battle for her meat," some­one else countered.

Vassago shook his head and picked up the child. "Older than that," he replied. He licked her exposed tummy with his snaking tongue. She giggled. "There ... I licked her, she's mine now."

"Since when is that a rule?!" Harpy protested.

"Fine, if you don't care about the Old Ways and the traditions set by the Ancient Ones, then go ahead and take her," Vassago replied casually. Several hands and claws reached out for the child, but it was Harpy that snatched her away by the legs with a triumphant shriek. The infant, however, seemed not the least discomforted being in her iron claws or upside down. A few demons seemed ready to tackle Harpy, however, infant and all.